


Frodoception

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Don't Read This, Ficlet, Gen, M/M, WTF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-30 18:16:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12114423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Maybe Frodo went through a Malkovich door.





	Frodoception

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pt_tucker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pt_tucker/gifts).



> A/N: I had to write this for pt_tucker. No one else should have to suffer through it.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It isn’t the light streaming in through his cream-coloured curtains that wakes him, but the sound of a familiar voice humming just beyond his walls. Stretching out, Frodo yawns, and he instinctively turns to the other side of the bed, seeking more warmth. But he finds himself alone in bed, and when he lets himself _really_ come to, he can hear the hedge cutters at work. Around another yawn, he calls, “Sam?”

He gets no answer. But it wouldn’t be _too_ unusual for Sam to get up early and go to work on the garden, even though he’s no longer employed to do so. Now it’s just all choice and fun: he takes a certain pride in the luxurious greenery of Bag End. Frodo can’t blame him; he does a wondrous job.

But it isn’t his voice that’s humming, so Frodo pushes himself out of bed and stumbles over to the window. When he draws the curtains open, the sun assaults his eyes, and it takes him a second to blink through it. Then he blinks again before rubbing his eyes, sure that sleep’s still clinging to him—but when he looks out again, he sees the same thing: a relatively thin hobbit with curly brown hair trimming the hedge the way Sam might. Except it isn’t Sam. It’s _Frodo_. 

Frodo just sort of... _stares_. He feels faintly dizzy, as one’s wont to do when confronted with such a jarringly odd sight, but then he shakily reminds himself that there’s magic in this world. He’s heard more than enough of Bilbo’s old tales to know that, and he’s even met a wizard, once or twice. Surely this is some magician’s idea of a cruel joke. 

Dazed, Frodo makes his way to the kitchen—coffee, _strong_ coffee, might help. But he finds someone in his kitchen, and it isn’t Bilbo, though the hobbit’s wearing Bilbo’s patchwork robe. _Frodo’s_ wearing Bilbo’s patchwork robe. There can be no mistaking it this time. Spotting him to turn and smile, the other Frodo smiles and greets, just as Bilbo might, “Good morning, my boy. Have a good sleep?”

Frodo’s mouth works silently for a few failed tries before he manages, “What’s going on?”

“Tea,” Robed-Frodo answers, gesturing at the steaming kettle. When he reaches up to the counter to fetch the teabags, Frodo wrenches himself away—the whole situation’s disorienting.

He makes his way to the front door as swiftly as he can, ignoring his own voice calling after him. Still in his nightshirt and slacks, he ploughs the door right open and marches out—something’s going on, and he has to find someone, anyone, who isn’t _him_.

The gardening Frodo smiles and waves at him as he comes down the path but otherwise doesn’t make any sudden moves. Frodo ignores that too and looks towards the hill, relieved the second he sees a tall, grey hat rounding it—he can hear the horses—and surely that means that Gandalf’s come to rescue him from whatever mischief’s come about. Only, when the wagon rounds the corner, the horses are normal, and Gandalf isn’t—he’s quite a bit smaller, for one, and his face is the exact same one Frodo sees whenever he looks in a mirror.

Dressed from head to foot as Gandalf, the wizard Frodo rides close enough to slow the horses and climb down. Frodo’s legs are too weak to run. Wizard-Frodo tells him, “Ah, good morning, Frodo. I’m quite pleased to see you—I’m in need of a Frodo for my adventure, you see, and I have thirteen Frodos coming by to see you about it for afternoon tea. I am not sure you will have heard of any of them, though Frodo, son of Frodo, King Under the Frodo, will be quite worth meeting, I assure you!”

Too horrified to breathe a word, Frodo finally bolts. He moves so fast that he nearly knocks his other self down, and he goes barreling along the path, whipping around the corner, down into the busy streets of Hobbiton—and busy they are, with a dozen Frodos all attending the market, some even in corsets and skirts and others pint-sized and playing like children. When he sees an old Frodo bent over a log with a long pipe, it’s all too much, and Frodo stops running long enough to scream. 

He screams so loud that the world goes black, and for a fleeting second, Frodo thinks he’s fainted.

And then his shoulders are being shaken, and someone’s calling his name, and it’s only because that voice _isn’t_ his that he dares to open his eyes. The world is in full colour again, although muted in the dim light of the morning, the curtains still drawn.

Sam’s plump face looks down at him, handsome even with the worry it wears. Frodo’s throat is parched and hoarse, and he realizes that he must’ve been _really_ screaming, and he probably woke his poor Sam up.

He blinks hazily, and Sam asks him gently, “What’s wrong?”

Frodo just exhales. He lets a minute pass, during which he soaks in the world around him, unoccupied by other hims, just the way he remembers it, with Sam at his side. It all seems so silly now, and he can’t quite bring himself to repeat the whole thing, so instead just mutters, “Only a nightmare. I’m sorry.” Sam nods soberly, probably thinking Frodo dreamt of something grave, like their journey through Mordor instead of just a mass of Frodos. 

Sam still hovers by his side even after Frodo’s explained it. But that’s his Sam—always loving and attentive. Frodo lets his eyes stray up, his body quite content to stay heavy in bed, but when he looks at the ceiling, he makes a decision. He turns to Sam again and murmurs, “Sam, I... I’m sorry. You know I love you, and I think it was a good idea to try for one night... but I must insist we take the mirror off the ceiling.”

Sam offers him a polite smile and promises, “Okay.” He doesn’t fight it at all. And he shows he doesn’t mind discarding the idea by dipping down to rub his nose against Frodo’s. Frodo chuckles.

Frodo nuzzles Sam back, reaches out to embrace him properly, and sighs into his ear, heedless of how strange it sounds, “I’m _so_ glad you’re not Frodo.”


End file.
